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In the discussions leading up to this interview you question the notion that your work's 'placedness' is clear for all to see. From the inside looking out that is a reasonable question to posit. After all there are no unambiguous 'signposts' the place/s that inform it. Yet somehow the proposition that it 'belongs' to a place in some ways is almost inescapable.
If one didn't know your background, then maybe they would not know that you work in South East Tasmania. Nor perhaps, would they detect an hint of your family background or your family's connections to remote places that few, very few, people visit. But it is quite likely that they would very soon start asking themselves questions like, "what kind of place do these objects spring from?"
Clearly, this work is not made in a big city – say like New York, Paris, London .... Hobart even – nor informed by any kind of 'international metropolitan' sensibility. So, as soon as one says that to oneself, the next question in line to be answered is ever likely to be something link what kind of place would spawn such work – and it looks as much like it has been 'spawned' as it has been made. In a way, in this day and age, it is very likely that with the maker's name in hand a curious observer would very soon be able to answer such questions at some level.
So from your perspective, in the making of the work, how much are you are conscious of the place/s that it seems are subliminally – perhaps overtly even – informing the work and the 'making'.
Sally Brown: ... From my perspective, I don't feel at all conscious of the place that is informing the work. There is no deliberate attempt on my part to make my work look as though it comes from somewhere, or belongs to a particular place. In fact, there is no attempt to make my work look like it was made by Sally Brown, and yet it seems that I have a quite distinctive style. I don't deny though that it does come from and belong to a place- Tasmania, or southern Tasmania even- however it is not at all contrived to be that way; rather, it happens organically.
It seems to me to be a simple matter of having spent 30 years growing up surrounded by the particular brand of nature that this part of the world has to offer. I make my art objects in a way that looks pleasing to me; my idea of what is aesthetically pleasing comes from an appreciation of my natural surroundings, and thus the place is expressed through the art.
When I spoke about my work last year (in a floor talk/discussion about my exhibition Remade) I was asked that if I were to be plonked into a totally different environment- say, New York City, would my work change to reflect those surroundings. The answer is no.. my art making is not such an immediate response as that (some of my pieces have had a gestation of up to 10 years) and more importantly, if I were 'transplanted' my 30 years of Tasmanian influence would still form the basis of my aesthetic sensibility.
If I'd lived all my life in New York City, however, I suspect I'd be quite a different person and who knows what I'd be doing. This raises the question then, not whether or not the environment (or place) influences my work, but how. When I am making art, the thing I am conscious of is the material I'm using; what I can and can't do, how I can manipulate/transform it.
All the while I am making unconscious decisions about form/colour/scale/composition etc. which arise naturally and automatically from my personal aesthetic preferences. While I am making a piece, or often not until it's made, I'll look at it and recognise something familiar.. maybe there's a pattern like sand ripples, or lichen, or a geological formation.
Sometimes it's bleedingly obvoius and I can't belive I hadn't noticed earlier. Sometimes it's more ambiguous, or it might be reminiscent of two or three things simultaneously. These natural similes provide the titles for my art pieces, and sometimes influence the way the piece is finished, but they are not the starting point for my work. Rather, they are my interpretation of the object I have made.
I believe it is human nature to recognise, or even to seek out, something familiar in an unfamiliar or seemingly abstract object. We search our internal catalogue of imagery for a good match, and say 'Oh! it looks like....'. Other people, therefore, can (and do) interpret my work quite differently, drawing on their own experiences. I have sometimes been quite taken aback by others' interpretations.
Here are some examples:
This 3 panel, hanging organza and pebble screen is titled 'Lapping Screen', partly because the panels pivot and overlap, and because the stitched pockets which contain the pebbles look to me like lines left in the pebbly sand by a receding tide.
Imagine my surprise to hear someone interpret it as towering office blocks in a city, with each pocket an office and each pebble an office worker!
Spun Bench is to me very clearly a coccoon, but I have heard it described as a snarl of razor wire- quite the antithesis of a coccoon.
Made of barbed wire hammered flat, these are called Bramble Light Shades. Both barbed wire and brambles (I delight in the similarity between the two) are to me reminiscent of hot summer days, cow paddocks and blackberry picking.. but of course barbed wire comes with it's own baggage of obvious symbolism.
I am suggesting here that the sense of 'place' in an artwork can be a curious mixture of that which is being projected by the artist, and that which is overlaid by the viewer. The sense of place in my work springs from an unconscious, place-specific aesthetic, which is reinforced by my conscious recognition of the familiar. I choose to give my work titles and statements, which provides the viewer with a signpost; an insight into what the work means to me, and, therefore, a clue to the place (and the person) from which it might arise.
Sally Brown: ... From my perspective, I don't feel at all conscious of the place that is informing the work. There is no deliberate attempt on my part to make my work look as though it comes from somewhere, or belongs to a particular place. In fact, there is no attempt to make my work look like it was made by Sally Brown, and yet it seems that I have a quite distinctive style. I don't deny though that it does come from and belong to a place- Tasmania, or southern Tasmania even- however it is not at all contrived to be that way; rather, it happens organically.
It seems to me to be a simple matter of having spent 30 years growing up surrounded by the particular brand of nature that this part of the world has to offer. I make my art objects in a way that looks pleasing to me; my idea of what is aesthetically pleasing comes from an appreciation of my natural surroundings, and thus the place is expressed through the art.
When I spoke about my work last year (in a floor talk/discussion about my exhibition Remade) I was asked that if I were to be plonked into a totally different environment- say, New York City, would my work change to reflect those surroundings. The answer is no.. my art making is not such an immediate response as that (some of my pieces have had a gestation of up to 10 years) and more importantly, if I were 'transplanted' my 30 years of Tasmanian influence would still form the basis of my aesthetic sensibility.
If I'd lived all my life in New York City, however, I suspect I'd be quite a different person and who knows what I'd be doing. This raises the question then, not whether or not the environment (or place) influences my work, but how. When I am making art, the thing I am conscious of is the material I'm using; what I can and can't do, how I can manipulate/transform it.
All the while I am making unconscious decisions about form/colour/scale/composition etc. which arise naturally and automatically from my personal aesthetic preferences. While I am making a piece, or often not until it's made, I'll look at it and recognise something familiar.. maybe there's a pattern like sand ripples, or lichen, or a geological formation.
Sometimes it's bleedingly obvoius and I can't belive I hadn't noticed earlier. Sometimes it's more ambiguous, or it might be reminiscent of two or three things simultaneously. These natural similes provide the titles for my art pieces, and sometimes influence the way the piece is finished, but they are not the starting point for my work. Rather, they are my interpretation of the object I have made.
I believe it is human nature to recognise, or even to seek out, something familiar in an unfamiliar or seemingly abstract object. We search our internal catalogue of imagery for a good match, and say 'Oh! it looks like....'. Other people, therefore, can (and do) interpret my work quite differently, drawing on their own experiences. I have sometimes been quite taken aback by others' interpretations.
Here are some examples:
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| Lapping ScreenIII |
This 3 panel, hanging organza and pebble screen is titled 'Lapping Screen', partly because the panels pivot and overlap, and because the stitched pockets which contain the pebbles look to me like lines left in the pebbly sand by a receding tide.
Imagine my surprise to hear someone interpret it as towering office blocks in a city, with each pocket an office and each pebble an office worker!
Spun Bench is to me very clearly a coccoon, but I have heard it described as a snarl of razor wire- quite the antithesis of a coccoon.
Made of barbed wire hammered flat, these are called Bramble Light Shades. Both barbed wire and brambles (I delight in the similarity between the two) are to me reminiscent of hot summer days, cow paddocks and blackberry picking.. but of course barbed wire comes with it's own baggage of obvious symbolism.
I am suggesting here that the sense of 'place' in an artwork can be a curious mixture of that which is being projected by the artist, and that which is overlaid by the viewer. The sense of place in my work springs from an unconscious, place-specific aesthetic, which is reinforced by my conscious recognition of the familiar. I choose to give my work titles and statements, which provides the viewer with a signpost; an insight into what the work means to me, and, therefore, a clue to the place (and the person) from which it might arise.
